


The Real Deal at Club Ha

by SeasaltDynasty



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batman - Freeform, F/M, Joker - Freeform, Lemon, Smut ahead, Suicide Squad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 05:03:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10892262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeasaltDynasty/pseuds/SeasaltDynasty
Summary: When your friends dare each other to call the bartender "Daddy," you take it one step further.Why not say it to that Joker impersonator in the corner?Because that *is* an impersonator...right?





	The Real Deal at Club Ha

**Author's Note:**

> I plan on making this a two-shot, with smut being in the next (and last) chapter. I may lose inspiration, so encouragement is welcome!
> 
> Your name: (Y/N). Download a Chrome extension like Search and Replace for your name to appear in the actual text!

It's only your second drink, but your friends are already acting like a bunch of pink-faced idiots. You assume they've been pre-gaming - drinks don't come cheap at Club Ha, after all. You're seriously tempted to leave before you're forced to play designated driver, but then they pull you tighter into the fray and someone hands you a shot glass out of thin air.  
  
_Much better,_ you think.  
  
And before long, you're part of a game that's all too familiar: Who can take on the craziest bet? Who's more daring, more freaky? Your oldest friend from school kisses a complete stranger on the hand, and before long someone else is unhooking her bra, doing the cha-cha slide by herself, asking the bartender for a condom.  
  
You can't help it. Just once, you want to win.  
  
The answer dawns on you when a strobe light passes his face across the room. He's a total whackjob, judging by the slick green hair, silvery grilles and bleached-looking skin. It's an impressive imitation of the Joker - he could pass for the real deal, if you didn't know better. He is, hands-down, the strangest looking man in the room.   
  
"I dare you to call the bartender 'Daddy,'" giggles the friend to your left.   
  
"Boring." You raise your voice for the first time, causing everyone's heads to turn. "How about..." You look for him, and he's not hard to find. To top it all off, he's sitting on a leather armchair with a cane in his grip, arms crossed. " _Him?_ "  
  
Surprisingly, your friends fall silent. Most of them are biting their lips, glancing at each other. Without another word, you saunter off in his direction.  
  
Is it just your imagination, or does one of your friends shout "(Y/N), wait!" behind you? You just smile to yourself, knowing there's no way anyone can top  _this_. You push yourself closer to the corner,  _his_ corner, and for some reason the crowd thins instead of thickens. You run a hand through your hair and manage to catch your reflection in the long mirror behind the counter. You look as daring as you suddenly feel - bright eyes, a little bounce to your step. Liquid courage, no doubt.  
  
The closer you get, the stranger he appears. And yet...he isn't _ugly_  strange. Just... _strange_  strange. His eyes are unnatural, the color of mercury. And wild as hell. You wish you could give yourself a proper once-over in the bathroom, but it's too late for that now. You're close enough for his gaze to slowly shift, zeroing in on you, starting at your boots to rake their way up, up, up, and you can't tell if he likes what he sees. He just looks amused.  
  
Are your friends seeing this? They feel miles away, somehow. And yet, there's still a ring of space between you and the impersonator - some kind of imaginary line that the dancers are avoiding. You hold your breath as you enter that no-man's-land, drawn to his mercury eyes like a moth to the flame. Out of nowhere, you blurt out your dare.  
  
"Buy me another drink, Daddy?"  
  
You weren't sure what to expect. Possibly for him to ignore you, like the bartender, but this isn't what happens. Instead, he tilts his head back and takes a deep breath through his nose, like he already needs a break from you. Or like a predator weighing its options.  
  
Before you can blink, he's on his feet and right behind you. He raises his cane to sweep the hair off your neck. And he lights your skin on fire with goosebumps as he says, "I didn't hear the magic word, darlin.'"  
  
You sputter. You should already be skipping back to your friends, doubled over with laughter and glowing like a champion. Instead you feel like a small animal dangling by your feet, paying the price for crossing a wire you didn't see.  
  
His grip tightens. "The magic word, honey. Let's hear it."   
  
Focus, you command yourself. " _Please_  buy me a drink, Daddy."  
  
Right answer - you feel yourself being herded toward the bar. Hardly a second passes before a bartender pops up, looking nervous as hell. He avoids the man's gaze as he asks, "What can I bring you, Mister J?"  
  
You wish you could turn your head to match the whackjob's name to his whackjob face, but instinct won't let you move.  
  
"OJ," your new date says loudly, with a barking laugh that makes you jump - and then he laughs even harder.  
  
"Right away, sir." The bartender keeps his eyes pointed downward. You can feel hundreds of others blinking at you across the room, but their signals aren't clear. Jealous? Afraid? You don't have time to decide before a piercing shatter brings you to attention.  
  
"I didn't ask for vodka, did I, son?"   
  
Mister J has a bottleneck of Grey Goose in one hand. The rest of the bottle is in pieces behind the counter, and the poor bartender is trembling. But how can you help him when you can't even help yourself? "M-my apologies, sir," he stammers.  
  
Right before your eyes, the maniac empties the glass onto the floor and holds it out until the bartender stands up, still trembling, and fills it with plain orange juice.  
  
"Thank you  _kindly,_ " says Mister J as he presses the glass to your lips. You drain the entire thing, feeling grateful but embarrassed - when someone officially pulls the plug on your drinking, you've gone too far. Still, you can feel some of that moxy returning.  
  
Very slowly, you turn around to face him. Up close you can see the rings of deepest black around his eyes, the sharp point of his nose, the tattoo on his forehead:  _Damaged_. It looks familiar, but how can that be?  
  
And then, heart in your throat, it dawns on you that this might not be a Joker _impersonator_  at all. You try to catch your breath before realizing that the maybe-supervillain is peering down at something. You follow his gaze to see your ID in his hand, and you aren't even surprised that he managed to swipe your wallet without catching your attention.  
  
"Ms. (Y/N)," he reads. "Well, what do you know. A miss without a  _Mister._ "

He knows your name, now - an uncomfortable thought. Not to mention your age...your _address_...

You watch helplessly until he returns your wallet and takes the empty glass from your hand, thrusting it behind him until someone scurries over to collect it with a bow. His eyes remain on you the whole time, his head cocked with a manic smile. "You know, kitten, I'm feeling a little thirsty myself."  
  
Your heart won't stop hammering.  _What if I make a break for it?_  you wonder. And yet, another part of you doesn't plan on going anywhere. You don't want to be the blubbering victim; you want to see what happens next.   
  
It's a dangerous thing to say, and you say it anyway. "What do you want, Daddy?"  
  
His head tilts back again. Eyes closed, deep breath. But this time he lunges forward, grabs you around the knees and tips you over his shoulder. If you ever had a shot at running away, it’s ancient history now.


End file.
